THE TRUE STORY OF MY LIFE:
A SKETCH BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN...continued




CHAPTER VII.

 

In the summer of 1842, I wrote a little piece for the summer theatre,

called, "The Bird in the Pear-tree," in which several scenes were acted

up in the pear-tree. I had called it a dramatic trifle, in order that

no one might expect either a great work or one of a very elaborate

character. It was a little sketch, which, after being performed a few

times, was received with so much applause, that the directors of the

theatre accepted it; nay, even Mrs. Heiberg, the favorite of the

public, desired to take a part in it. People had amused themselves; had

thought the selection of the music excellent. I knew that the piece had

stood its rehearsal--and then suddenly it was hissed. Some young men,

who gave the word to hiss, had said to some others, who inquired from

them their reasons for doing so, that the trifle had too much luck, and

then Andersen would be getting too mettlesome.

 

I was not, on this evening, at the theatre myself, and had not the

least idea of what was going on. On the following I went to the house

of one of my friends. I had head-ache, and was looking very grave. The

lady of the house met me with a sympathizing manner, took my hand, and

said, "Is it really worth while to take it so much to heart? There were

only two who hissed, the whole house beside took your part."

 

"Hissed! My part! Have I been hissed?" exclaimed I.

 

It was quite comic; one person assured me that this hissing had been a

triumph for me; everybody had joined in acclamation, and "there was

only one who hissed."

 

After this, another person came, and I asked him of the number of those

who hissed. "Two," said he. The next person said "three," and said

positively there were no more. One of my most veracious friends now

made his appearance, and I asked him upon his conscience, how many he

had heard; he laid his hand upon his heart, and said that, at the very

highest, they were five.

 

"No," said I, "now I will ask nobody more; the number grows just as

with Falstaff; here stands one who asserts that there was only one

person who hissed."

 

Shocked, and yet inclined to set it all right again, he replied, "Yes,

that is possible, but then it was a strong, powerful hiss."

 

By my last works, and through a rational economy, I had now saved a

small sum of money, which I destined to the purposes of a new journey

to Paris, where I arrived in the winter of 1843, by way of D sseldorf,

through Belgium.

 

Marmier had already, in the _R vue de Paris_, written an article

on me, _La Vie d'un Po te_. He had also translated several of my

poems into French, and had actually honored me with a poem which is

printed in the above-named _R vue_. My name had thus reached, like

a sound, the ears of some persons in the literary world, and I here met

with a surprisingly friendly reception.

 

At Victor Hugo's invitation, I saw his abused _Burggraves_. Mr.

and Mrs. Ancelot opened their house to me, and there I met Martinez

della Rosa and other remarkable men of these times. Lamart ne seemed to

me, in his domestic, and in his whole personal appearance, as the

prince of them all. On my apologizing because I spoke such bad French,

he replied, that he was to blame, because he did not understand the

northern languages, in which, as he had discovered in late years, there

existed a fresh and vigorous literature, and where the poetical ground

was so peculiar that you had only to stoop down to find an old golden

horn. He asked about the Trollh tta canal, and avowed a wish to visit

Denmark and Stockholm. He recollected also our now reigning king, to

whom, when as prince he was in Castellamare, he had paid his respects;

besides this, he exhibited for a Frenchman, an extraordinary

acquaintance with names and places in Denmark. On my departure he wrote

a little poem for me, which I preserve amongst my dearest relics.

 

I generally found the jovial Alexander Dumas in bed, even long after

mid-day: here he lay, with paper, pen, and ink, and wrote his newest

drama. I found him thus one day; he nodded kindly to me, and said, "Sit

down a minute; I have just now a visit from my muse; she will be going

directly." He wrote on; spoke aloud; shouted a _viva!_ sprang out

of bed, and said, "The third act is finished!"

 

One evening he conducted me round into the various theatres, that I

might see the life behind the scenes. We wandered about, arm in arm,

along the gay Boulevard.

 

I also have to thank him for my acquaintance with Rachel. I had not

seen her act, when Alexander Dumas asked me whether I had the desire to

make her acquaintance. One evening, when she was to come out as Phedra

he led me to the stage of the Th atre Fran ais. The Representation had

begun, and behind the scenes, where a folding screen had formed a sort

of room, in which stood a table with refreshments, and a few ottomans,

sate the young girl who, as an author has said, understands how to

chisel living statues out of Racine's and Corneille's blocks of marble.

She was thin and slenderly formed, and looked very young. She looked to

me there, and more particularly so afterwards in her own house, as an

image of mourning; as a young girl who has just wept out her sorrow,

and will now let her thoughts repose in quiet. She accosted us kindly

in a deep powerful voice. In the course of conversation with Dumas, she

forgot me. I stood there quite superfluous. Dumas observed it, said

something handsome of me, and on that I ventured to take part in the

discourse, although I had a depressing feeling that I stood before

those who perhaps spoke the most beautiful French in all France. I said

that I truly had seen much that was glorious and interesting, but that

I had never yet seen a Rachel, and that on her account especially had I

devoted the profits of my last work to a journey to Paris; and as, in

conclusion, I added an apology on account of my French, she smiled and

said, "When you say anything so polite as that which you have just said

to me, to a Frenchwoman, she will always think that you speak well."

 

When I told her that her fame had resounded to the North, she declared

that it was her intention to go to Petersburg and Copenhagen: "and when

I come to your city", she said, "you must be my defender, as you are

the only one there whom I know; and in order that we may become

acquainted, and as you, as you say, are come to Paris especially on my

account, we must see each other frequently. You will be welcome to me.

I see my friends at my house every Thursday. But duty calls," said she,

and offering us her hand, she nodded kindly, and then stood a few paces

from us on the stage, taller, quite different, and with the expression

of the tragic muse herself. Joyous acclamations ascended to where we

sat.

 

As a Northlander I cannot accustom myself to the French mode of acting

tragedy. Rachel plays in this same style, but in her it appears to be

nature itself; it is as if all the others strove to imitate her. She is

herself the French tragic muse, the others are only poor human beings.

When Rachel plays people fancy that all tragedy must be acted in this

manner. It is in her truth and nature, but under another revelation to

that with which we are acquainted in the north.

 

At her house everything is rich and magnificent, perhaps too

_recherch _. The innermost room was blue-green, with shaded lamps

and statuettes of French authors. In the salon, properly speaking, the

color which prevailed principally in the carpets, curtains, and

bookcases was crimson. She herself was dressed in black, probably as

she is represented in the well-known English steel engraving of her.

Her guests consisted of gentlemen, for the greater part artists and men

of learning. I also heard a few titles amongst them. Richly apparelled

servants announced the names of the arrivals; tea was drunk and

refreshments handed round, more in the German than the French style.

 

Victor Hugo had told me that he found she understood the German

language. I asked her, and she replied in German, "ich kann es lesen;

ich bin ja in Lothringen geboren; ich habe deutsche B cher, sehn Sie

hier!" and she showed me Grillparzer's "Sappho," and then immediately

continued the conversation in French. She expressed her pleasure in

acting the part of Sappho, and then spoke of Schiller's "Maria Stuart,"

which character she has personated in a French version of that play. I

saw her in this part, and she gave the last act especially with such a

composure and tragic feeling, that she might have been one of the best

of German actresses; but it was precisely in this very act that the

French liked her least.

 

"My countrymen," said she, "are not accustomed to this manner, and in

this manner alone can the part be given. No one should be raving when

the heart is almost broken with sorrow, and when he is about to take an

everlasting farewell of his friends."

 

Her drawing-room was, for the most part, decorated with books which

were splendidly bound and arranged in handsome book-cases behind glass.

A painting hung on the wall, which represented the interior of the

theatre in London, where she stood forward on the stage, and flowers

and garlands were thrown to her across the orchestra. Below this

picture hung a pretty little book-shelf, holding what I call "the high

nobility among the poets,"--Goethe, Schiller, Calderon, Shakspeare, &c.

 

She asked me many questions respecting Germany and Denmark, art, and

the theatre; and she encouraged me with a kind smile around her grave

mouth, when I stumbled in French and stopped for a moment to collect

myself, that I might not stick quite fast.

 

"Only speak," said she. "It is true that you do not speak French well.

I have heard many foreigners speak my native language better; but their

conversation has not been nearly as interesting as yours. I understand

the sense of your words perfectly, and that is the principal thing

which interests me in you."

 

The last time we parted she wrote the following words in my album:

"L'art c'est le vrai! J'esp re que cet aphorisme ne semblera pas

paradoxal   un  crivain si distingu  comme M. Andersen."

 

I perceived amiability of character in Alfred de Vigny. He has married

an English lady, and that which is best in both nations seemed to unite

in his house. The last evening which I spent in Paris, he himself, who

is possessed of intellectual status and worldly wealth, came almost at

midnight to my lodging in the Rue Richelieu, ascended the many steps,

and brought me his works under his arm. So much cordiality beamed in

his eyes and he seemed to be so full of kindness towards me, that I

felt affected by our separation.

 

I also became acquainted with the sculptor David. There was a something

in his demeanor and in his straightforward manner that reminded me of

Thorwaldsen and Bissen, especially of the latter. We did not meet till

towards the conclusion of my residence in Paris. He lamented it, and

said that he would execute a bust of me if I would remain there longer.

 

When I said, "But you know nothing of me as a poet, and cannot tell

whether I deserve it or not," he looked earnestly in my face, clapped

me on the shoulder, and said, "I have, however, read you yourself

before your books. You are a poet."

 

At the Countess ----'s, where I met with Balzac, I saw an old lady, the

expression of whose countenance attracted my attention. There was

something so animated, so cordial in it, and everybody gathered about

her. The Countess introduced me to her, and I heard that she was Madame

Reybaud, the authoress of Les Epaves, the little story which I had made

use of for my little drama of The Mulatto. I told her all about it, and

of the representation of the piece, which interested her so much, that

she became from this evening my especial protectress. We went out one

evening together and exchanged ideas. She corrected my French and

allowed me to repeat what did not appear correct to her. She is a lady

of rich mental endowments, with a clear insight into the world, and she

showed maternal kindness towards me.

 

I also again met with Heine. He had married since I was last here. I

found him in indifferent health; but full of energy, and so friendly

and so natural in his behavior towards me, that I felt no timidity in

exhibiting myself to him as I was. One day he had been relating to his

wife my story of the Constant Tin Soldier, and, whilst he said that I

was the author of this story, he introduced me to her. She was a

lively, pretty young lady. A troop of children, who, as Heine says,

belonged to a neighbor, played about in their room. We two played with

them whilst Heine copied out one of his last poems for me.

 

I perceived in him no pain-giving, sarcastic smile; I only heard the

pulsation of a German heart, which is always perceptible in the songs,

and which _must_ live.

 

Through the means of the many people I was acquainted with here, among

whom I might enumerate many others, as, for instance, Kalkbrenner,

Gathy, &c., my residence in Paris was made very cheerful and rich in

pleasure. I did not feel myself like a stranger there: I met with a

friendly reception among the greatest and best. It was like a payment

by anticipation of the talent which was in me, and through which they

expected that I would some time prove them not to have been mistaken.

 

Whilst I was in Paris, I received from Germany, where already several

of my works were translated and read, a delightful and encouraging

proof of friendship. A German family, one of the most highly cultivated

and amiable with whom I am acquainted, had read my writings with

interest, especially the little biographical sketch prefixed to Only a

Fiddler, and felt the heartiest goodwill towards me, with whom they

were then not personally acquainted. They wrote to me, expressed their

thanks for my works and the pleasure they had derived from them, and

offered me a kind welcome to their house if I would visit it on my

return home. There was a something extremely cordial and natural in

this letter, which was the first that I received of this kind in Paris,

and it also formed a remarkable contrast to that which was sent to me

from my native land in the year 1833, when I was here for the first

time.

 

In this way I found myself, through my writings, adopted, as it were,

into a family to which since then I gladly betake myself, and where I

know that it is not only as the poet, but as the man, that I am

beloved. In how many instances have I not experienced the same kindness

in foreign countries! I will mention one for the sake of its

peculiarity.

 

There lived in Saxony a wealthy and benevolent family; the lady of the

house read my romance of Only a Fiddler, and the impression of this

book was such that she vowed that, if ever, in the course of her life,

she should meet with a poor child which was possessed of great musical

talents, she would not allow it to perish as the poor Fiddler had done.

A musician who had heard her say this, brought to her soon after, not

one, but two poor boys, assuring her of their talent, and reminding her

of her promise. She kept her word: both boys were received into her

house, were educated by her, and are now in the Conservatorium; the

youngest of them played before me, and I saw that his countenance was

happy and joyful. The same thing perhaps might have happened; the same

excellent lady might have befriended these children without my book

having been written: but notwithstanding this, my book is now connected

with this as a link in the chain.

 

On my return home from Paris, I went along the Rhine; I knew that the

poet Frieligrath, to whom the King of Prussia had given a pension, was

residing in one of the Rhine towns. The picturesque character of his

poems had delighted me extremely, and I wished to talk with him. I

stopped at several towns on the Rhine, and inquired after him. In St.

Goar, I was shown the house in which he lived. I found him sitting at

his writing table, and he appeared annoyed at being disturbed by a

stranger. I did not mention my name; but merely said that I could not

pass St. Goar without paying my respects to the poet Frieligrath.

 

"That is very kind of you," said he, in a very cold tone; and then

asked who I was.

 

"We have both of us one and the same friend, Chamisso!" replied I, and

at these words he leapt up exultantly.

 

"You are then Andersen!" he exclaimed; threw his arms around my neck,

and his honest eyes beamed with joy.

 

"Now you will stop several days here," said he. I told him that I could

only stay a couple of hours, because I was travelling with some of my

countrymen who were waiting for me.

 

"You have a great many friends in little St. Goar," said he; "it is but

a short time since I read aloud your novel of O. T. to a large circle;

one of these friends I must, at all events, fetch here, and you must

also see my wife. Yes, indeed, you do not know that you had something

to do in our being married."

 

He then related to me how my novel, Only a Fiddler, had caused them to

exchange letters, and then led to their acquaintance, which

acquaintance had ended in their being a married couple. He called her,

mentioned to her my name, and I was regarded as an old friend. Such

moments as these are a blessing; a mercy of God, a happiness--and how

many such, how various, have I not enjoyed!

 

I relate all these, to me, joyful occurrences; they are facts in my

life: I relate them, as I formerly have related that which was

miserable, humiliating, and depressing; and if I have done so, in the

spirit which operated in my soul, it will not be called pride or

vanity;--neither of them would assuredly be the proper name for it. But

people may perhaps ask at home, Has Andersen then never been attacked

in foreign countries? I must reply,--no!

 

No regular attack has been made upon me, at least they have never at

home called my attention to any such, and therefore there certainly

cannot have been anything of the kind;--with the exception of one which

made its appearance in Germany, but which originated in Denmark, at the

very moment when I was in Paris.

 

A certain Mr. Boas made a journey at that time through Scandinavia, and

wrote a book on the subject. In this he gave a sort of survey of Danish

literature, which he also published in the journal called Die

Grenzboten; in this I was very severely handled as a man and as a poet.

Several other Danish poets also, as for instance, Christian Winter,

have an equally great right to complain. Mr. Boas had drawn his

information out of the miserable gossip of every-day life; his work

excited attention in Copenhagen, and nobody there would allow

themselves to be considered as his informants; nay even Holst the poet,

who, as may be seen from the work, travelled with him through Sweden,

and had received him at his house in Copenhagen, on this occasion

published, in one of the most widely circulated of our papers, a

declaration that he was in no way connected with Mr. Boas.

 

Mr. Boas had in Copenhagen attached himself to a particular clique

consisting of a few young men; he had heard them full of lively

spirits, talking during the day, of the Danish poets and their

writings; he had then gone home, written down what he had heard and

afterwards published it in his work. This was, to use the mildest term,

inconsiderate. That my Improvisatore and Only a Fiddler did not please

him, is a matter of taste, and to that I must submit myself. But when

he, before the whole of Germany, where probably people will presume

that what he has written is true, if he declare it to be, as is the

case, the universal judgment against me in my native land; when he, I

say, declared me before the whole of Germany, to be the most haughty of

men, he inflicts upon me a deeper wound than he perhaps imagined. He

conveyed the voice of a party, formerly hostile to me, into foreign

countries. Nor is he true even in that which he represents; he gives

circumstances as facts, which never took place.

 

In Denmark what he has written could not injure me, and many have

declared themselves afraid of coming into contact with any one, who

printed everything which he heard. His book was read in Germany, the

public of which is now also mine; and I believe, therefore, that I may

here say how faulty is his view of Danish literature and Danish poets;

in what manner his book was received in my native land and that people

there know in what way it was put together. But after I have expressed

myself thus on this subject I will gladly offer Mr. Boas my hand; and

if, in his next visit to Denmark, no other poet will receive him, I

will do my utmost for him; I know that he will not be able to judge me

more severely when we know each other, than when we knew each other

not. His judgment would also have been quite of another character had

he come to Denmark but one year later; things changed very much in a

year's time. Then the tide had turned in my favor; I then had published

my new children's stories, of which from that moment to the present

there prevailed, through the whole of my native land, but one

unchanging honorable opinion. When the edition of my collection of

stories came out at Christmas 1843, the reaction began; acknowledgment

of my merits were made, and favor shown me in Denmark, and from that

time I have no cause for complaint. I have obtained and I obtain in my

own land that which I deserve, nay perhaps, much more.

 

I will now turn to those little stories which in Denmark have been

placed by every one, without any hesitation, higher than anything else

I had hitherto written.

 

In the year 1835, some months after I published the Improvisatore, I

brought out my first volume of Stories for Children, [Footnote: I find

it very difficult to give a correct translation of the original word.

The Danish is _Eventyr_, equivalent to the German _Abentheur_,

or adventure; but adventures give in English a very different idea to this

class of stories. The German word _M rchen,_ gives the meaning

completely, and this we may English by _fairy tale_ or _legend,_ but

then neither of these words are fully correct with regard to Andersen's

stories. In my translation of his "Eventyr fortalte for Born," I gave as

an equivalent title, "Wonderful Stories for Children," and perhaps this

near as I could come.--M. H.] which at that time was not so very much

thought of. One monthly critical journal even complained that a young

author who had just published a work like the Improvisatore, should

immediately come out with anything so childish as the tales. I reaped a

harvest of blame, precisely where people ought to have acknowledged

the advantage of my mind producing something in a new direction.

Several of my friends, whose judgment was of value to me, counselled

me entirely to abstain from writing tales, as these were a something for

which I had no talent. Others were of opinion that I had better, first of

all, study the French fairy tale. I would willingly have discontinued

writing them, but they forced themselves from me.

 

In the volume which I first published, I had, like Mus us, but in my

own manner, related old stories, which I had heard as a child. The

volume concluded with one which was original, and which seemed to have

given the greatest pleasure, although it bore a tolerably near affinity

to a story of Hoffman's. In my increasing disposition for children's

stories, I therefore followed my own impulse, and invented them mostly

myself. In the following year a new volume came out, and soon after

that a third, in which the longest story, The Little Mermaid, was my

own invention. This story, in an especial manner, created an interest

which was only increased by the following volumes. One of these came

out every Christmas, and before long no Christmas tree could exist

without my stones.

 

Some of our first comic actors made the attempt of relating my little

stories from the stage; it was a complete change from the declamatory

poetry which had been heard to satiety. The Constant Tin Soldier,

therefore, the Swineherd, and the Top and Ball, were told from the

Royal stage, and from those of private theatres, and were well

received. In order that the reader might be placed in the proper point

of view, with regard to the manner in which I told the stories, I had

called my first volume Stories told for Children. I had written my

narrative down upon paper, exactly in the language, and with the

expressions in which I had myself related them, by word of mouth, to

the little ones, and I had arrived at the conviction that people of

different ages were equally amused with them. The children made

themselves merry for the most part over what might be called the

actors, older people, on the contrary, were interested in the deeper

meaning. The stories furnished reading for children and grown people,

and that assuredly is a difficult task for those who will write

children's stories. They met with open doors and open hearts in

Denmark; everybody read them. I now removed the words "told for

children," from my title, and published three volumes of "New Stories,"

all of which were of my own invention, and which were received in my

own country with the greatest favor. I could not wish it greater; I

felt a real anxiety in consequence, a fear of not being able to justify

afterwards such an honorable award of praise.

 

A refreshing sunshine streamed into my heart; I felt courage and joy,

and was filled, with a living desire of still more and more developing

my powers in this direction,--of studying more thoroughly this class of

writing, and of observing still more attentively the rich wells of

nature out of which I must create it. If attention be paid to the order

in which my stories are written, it certainly will be seen that there

is in them a gradual progression, a clearer working out of the idea, a

greater discretion in the use of agency, and, if I may so speak,

a more healthy tone and a more natural freshness may be perceived.

 

At this period of my life, I made an acquaintance which was of great

moral and intellectual importance to me. I have already spoken of

several persons and public characters who have had influence on me as

the poet; but none of these have had more, nor in a nobler sense of the

word, than the lady to whom I here turn myself; she, through whom I, at

the same time, was enabled to forget my own individual self, to feel

that which is holy in art, and to become acquainted with the command

which God has given to genius.

 

I now turn back to the year 1840. One day in the hotel in which I lived

in Copenhagen, I saw the name of Jenny Lind among those of the

strangers from Sweden. I was aware at that time that she was the first

singer in Stockholm. I had been that same year, in this neighbor

country, and had there met with honor and kindness: I thought,

therefore, that it would not be unbecoming in me to pay a visit to the

young artist. She was, at this time, entirely unknown out of Sweden, so

that I was convinced that, even in Copenhagen, her name was known only

by few. She received me very courteously, but yet distantly, almost

coldly. She was, as she said, on a journey with her father to South

Sweden, and was come over to Copenhagen for a few days in order that

she might see this city. We again parted distantly, and I had the

impression of a very ordinary character which soon passed away from my

mind.

 

In the autumn of 1843, Jenny Lind came again to Copenhagen. One of my

friends, our clever ballet-master, Bournonville, who has married a

Swedish lady, a friend of Jenny Lind, informed me of her arrival here

and told me that she remembered me very kindly, and that now she had

read my writings. He entreated me to go with him to her, and to employ

all my persuasive art to induce her to take a few parts at the Theatre

Royal; I should, he said, be then quite enchanted with what I should

hear.

 

I was not now received as a stranger; she cordially extended to me her

hand, and spoke of my writings and of Miss Fredrika Bremer, who also

was her affectionate friend. The conversation was soon turned to her

appearance in Copenhagen, and of this Jenny Lind declared that she

stood in fear.

 

"I have never made my appearance," said she, "out of Sweden; everybody

in my native land is so affectionate and kind to me, and if I made my

appearance in Copenhagen and should be hissed!--I dare not venture on

it!"

 

I said, that I, it was true, could not pass judgment on her singing,

because I had never heard it, neither did I know how she acted, but

nevertheless, I was convinced that such was the disposition at this

moment in Copenhagen, that only a moderate voice and some knowledge of

acting would be successful; I believed that she might safely venture.

 

Bournonville's persuasion obtained for the Copenhageners the greatest

enjoyment which they ever had.

 

Jenny Lind made her first appearance among them as Alice in Robert le

Diable--it was like a new revelation in the realms of art, the

youthfully fresh voice forced itself into every heart; here reigned

truth and nature; everything was full of meaning and intelligence. At

one concert Jenny Lind sang her Swedish songs; there was something so

peculiar in this, so bewitching; people thought nothing about the

concert room; the popular melodies uttered by a being so purely

feminine, and bearing the universal stamp of genius, exercised their

omnipotent sway--the whole of Copenhagen was in raptures. Jenny Lind

was the first singer to whom the Danish students gave a serenade:

torches blazed around the hospitable villa where the serenade was

given: she expressed her thanks by again singing some Swedish songs,

and I then saw her hasten into the darkest corner and weep for emotion.

 

"Yes, yes," said she, "I will exert myself; I will endeavor, I will be

better qualified than I am when I again come to Copenhagen."

 

On the stage, she was the great artiste, who rose above all those

around her; at home, in her own chamber, a sensitive young girl with

all the humility and piety of a child.

 

Her appearance in Copenhagen made an epoch in the history of our opera;

it showed me art in its sanctity--I had beheld one of its vestals. She

journeyed back to Stockholm, and from there Fredrika Bremer wrote to

me:--"With regard to Jenny Lind as a singer, we are both of us

perfectly agreed; she stands as high as any artist of our time can

stand; but as yet you do not know her in her full greatness. Speak to

her about her art, and you will wonder at the expansion of her mind,

and will see her countenance beaming with inspiration. Converse then

with her of God, and of the holiness of religion, and you will see

tears in those innocent eyes; she is great as an artist, but she is

still greater in her pure human existence!"

 

In the following year I was in Berlin; the conversation with Meyerbeer

turned upon Jenny Lind; he had heard her sing the Swedish songs, and

was transported by them.

 

"But how does she act?" asked he.

 

I spoke in raptures of her acting, and gave him at the same time some

idea of her representation of Alice. He said to me that perhaps it

might be possible for him to determine her to come to Berlin.

 

It is sufficiently well known that she made her appearance there, threw

every one into astonishment and delight, and won for herself in Germany

a European name. Last autumn she came again to Copenhagen, and the

enthusiasm was incredible; the glory of renown makes genius perceptible

to every one. People bivouacked regularly before the theatre, to obtain

a ticket. Jenny Lind appeared still greater than ever in her art,

because they had an opportunity of seeing her in many and such

extremely different parts. Her Norma is plastic; every attitude might

serve as the most beautiful model to a sculptor, and yet people felt

that these were the inspiration of the moment, and had not been studied

before the glass; Norma is no raving Italian; she is the suffering,

sorrowing woman--the woman possessed of a heart to sacrifice herself

for an unfortunate rival--the woman to whom, in the violence of the

moment, the thought may suggest itself of murdering the children of a

faithless lover, but who is immediately disarmed when she gazes into

the eyes of the innocent ones.

 

"Norma, thou holy priestess," sings the chorus, and Jenny Lind has

comprehended and shows to us this holy priestess in the aria, _Casta

diva_. In Copenhagen she sang all her parts in Swedish, and the

other singers sang theirs in Danish, and the two kindred languages

mingled very beautifully together; there was no jarring; even in the

Daughter of the Regiment where there is a deal of dialogue, the Swedish

had something agreeable--and what acting! nay, the word itself is a

contradiction--it was nature; anything as true never before appeared on

the stage. She shows us perfectly the true child of nature grown up in

the camp, but an inborn nobility pervades every movement. The Daughter

of the Regiment and the Somnambule are certainly Jenny Land's most

unsurpassable parts; no second can take their places in these beside

her. People laugh,--they cry; it does them as much good as going to

church; they become better for it. People feel that God is in art; and

where God stands before us face to face there is a holy church.

 

"There will not in a whole century," said Mendelssohn, speaking to me

of Jenny Lind, "be born another being so gifted as she;" and his words

expressed my full conviction; one feels as she makes her appearance on

the stage, that she is a pure vessel, from which a holy draught will be

presented to us.

 

There is not anything which can lessen the impression which Jenny

Lind's greatness on the stage makes, except her own personal character

at home. An intelligent and child-like disposition exercises here its

astonishing power; she is happy; belonging, as it were, no longer to

the world, a peaceful, quiet home, is the object of her thoughts--and

yet she loves art with her whole soul, and feels her vocation in it. A

noble, pious disposition like hers cannot be spoiled by homage. On one

occasion only did I hear her express her joy in her talent and her

self-consciousness. It was during her last residence in Copenhagen.

Almost every evening she appeared either in the opera or at concerts;

every hour was in requisition. She heard of a society, the object of

which was, to assist unfortunate children, and to take them out of the

hands of their parents by whom they were misused, and compelled either

to beg or steal, and to place them in other and better circumstances.

Benevolent people subscribed annually a small sum each for their

support, nevertheless the means for this excellent purpose were small.

 

"But have I not still a disengaged evening?" said she; "let me give a

night's performance for the benefit of these poor children; but we will

have double prices!"

 

Such a performance was given, and returned large proceeds; when she was

informed of this, and, that by this means, a number of poor children

would be benefited for several years, her countenance beamed, and the

tears filled her eyes.

 

"It is however beautiful," said she, "that I can sing so!"

 

I value her with the whole feeling of a brother, and I regard myself as

happy that I know and understand such a spirit. God give to her that

peace, that quiet happiness which she wishes for herself!

 

Through Jenny Lind I first became sensible of the holiness there is in

art; through her I learned that one must forget oneself in the service

of the Supreme. No books, no men have had a better or a more ennobling

influence on me as the poet, than Jenny Lind, and I therefore have

spoken of her so long and so warmly here.

 

I have made the happy discovery by experience, that inasmuch as art and

life are more clearly understood by me, so much more sunshine from

without has streamed into my soul. What blessings have not compensated

me for the former dark days! Repose and certainty have forced

themselves into my heart. Such repose can easily unite itself with the

changing life of travel; I feel myself everywhere at home, attach

myself easily to people, and they give me in return confidence and

cordiality.

 

In the summer of 1844 I once more visited North Germany. An

intellectual and amiable family in Oldenburg had invited me in the most

friendly manner to spend some time at their house. Count von Rantzau-

Breitenburg repeated also in his letters how welcome I should be to

him. I set out on the journey, and this journey was, if not one of my

longest, still one of my most interesting.

 

I saw the rich marsh-land in its summer luxuriance, and made with

Rantzau several interesting little excursions. Breitenburg lies in the

middle of woods on the river St/r; the steam-voyage to Hamburg gives

animation to the little river; the situation is picturesque, and life

in the castle itself is comfortable and pleasant. I could devote myself

perfectly to reading and poetry, because I was just as free as the bird

in the air, and I was as much cared for as if I had been a beloved

relation of the family. Alas it was the last time that I came hither;

Count Rantzau had, even then, a presentiment of his approaching death.

One day we met in the garden; he seized my hand, pressed it warmly,

expressed his pleasure in my talents being acknowledged abroad, and his

friendship for me, adding, in conclusion, "Yes, my dear young friend,

God only knows but I have the firm belief that this year is the last

time when we two shall meet here; my days will soon have run out their

full course." He looked at me with so grave an expression, that it

touched my heart deeply, but I knew not what to say. We were near to

the chapel; he opened a little gate between some thick hedges, and we

stood in a little garden, in which was a turfed grave and a seat beside

it.

 

"Here you will find me, when you come the next time to Breitenburg,"

said he, and his sorrowful words were true. He died the following

winter in Wiesbaden. I lost in him a friend, a protector, a noble

excellent heart.

 

When I, on the first occasion, went to Germany, I visited the Hartz and

the Saxon Switzerland. Goethe was still living. It was my most

heartfelt wish to see him. It was not far from the Hartz to Weimar, but

I had no letters of introduction to him, and, at that time, not one

line of my writings was translated. Many persons had described Goethe

to me as a very proud man, and the question arose whether indeed he

would receive me. I doubted it, and determined not to go to Weimar

until I should have written some work which would convey my name to

Germany. I succeeded in this, but alas, Goethe was already dead.

 

I had made the acquaintance of his daughter-in-law Mrs. von Goethe,

born at Pogwitsch, at the house of Mendelssohn Bartholdy, in Leipsig,

on my return from Constantinople; this _spirituelle_ lady received

me with much kindness. She told me that her son Walter had been my

friend for a long time; that as a boy he had made a whole play out of

my Improvisatore; that this piece had been performed in Goethe's house;

and lastly, that Walter, had once wished to go to Copenhagen to make my

acquaintance. I thus had now friends in Weimar.

 

An extraordinary desire impelled me to see this city where Goethe,

Schiller, Wieland, and Herder had lived, and from which so much light

had streamed forth over the world. I approached that land which had

been rendered sacred by Luther, by the strife of the Minnesingers on

the Wartburg, and by the memory of many noble and great events.

 

On the 24th of June, the birthday of the Grand Duke, I arrived a

stranger in the friendly town. Everything indicated the festivity which

was then going forward, and the young prince was received with great

rejoicing in the theatre, where a new opera was being given. I did not

think how firmly, the most glorious and the best of all those whom I

here saw around me, would grow into my heart; how many of my future

friends sat around me here--how dear this city would become to me--in

Germany my second home. I was invited by Goethe's worthy friend, the

excellent Chancellor M ller, and I met with the most cordial reception

from him. By accident I here met on my first call, with the Kammerherr

Beaulieu de Marconnay, whom I had known in Oldenburg; he was now placed

in Weimar. He invited me to remove to his house. In the course of a few

minutes I was his stationary guest, and I felt "it is good to be here."

 

There are people whom it only requires a few days to know and to love;

I won in Beaulieu, in these few days, a friend, as I believe, for my

whole life. He introduced me into the family circle, the amiable

chancellor received me equally cordially; and I who had, on my arrival,

fancied myself quite forlorn, because Mrs. von Goethe and her son

Walter were in Vienna, was now known in Weimar, and well received in

all its circles.

 

The reigning Grand Duke and Duchess gave me so gracious and kind a

reception as made a deep impression upon me. After I had been

presented, I was invited to dine, and soon after received an invitation

to visit the hereditary Grand Duke and his lady, at the hunting seat of

Ettersburg, which stands high, and close to an extensive forest. The

old fashioned furniture within the house, and the distant views from

the park into the Hartz mountains, produced immediately a peculiar

impression. All the young peasants had assembled at the castle to

celebrate the birthday of their beloved young Duke; climbing-poles,

from which fluttered handkerchiefs and ribbons, were erected; fiddles

sounded, and people danced merrily under the branches of the large and

flowering limetrees. Sabbath splendor, contentment and happiness were

diffused over the whole.

 

The young and but new married princely pair seemed to be united by true

heartfelt sentiment. The heart must be able to forget the star on the

breast under which it beats, if its possessor wish to remain long free

and happy in a court; and such a heart, certainly one of the noblest

and best which beats, is possessed by Karl Alexander of Saxe-Weimar. I

had the happiness of a sufficient length of time to establish this

belief. During this, my first residence here, I came several times to

the happy Ettersburg. The young Duke showed me the garden and the tree

on the trunk of which Goethe, Schiller, and Wieland had cut their

names; nay even Jupiter himself had wished to add his to theirs, for

his thunder-bolt had splintered it in one of the branches.

 

The intellectual Mrs. von Gross (Amalia Winter), Chancellor von M ller,

who was able livingly to unroll the times of Goethe and to explain his

Faust, and the soundly honest and child-like minded Eckermann belonged

to the circle at Ettersburg. The evenings passed like a spiritual

dream; alternately some one read aloud; even I ventured, for the first

time in a foreign language to me, to read one of my own tales--the

Constant Tin Soldier.

 

Chancellor von M ller accompanied me to the princely burial-place,

where Karl August sleeps with his glorious wife, not between Schiller

and Goethe, as I believed when I wrote--"the prince has made for

himself a rainbow glory, whilst he stands between the sun and the

rushing waterfall." Close beside the princely pair, who understood and

valued that which was great, repose these their immortal friends.

Withered laurel garlands lay upon the simple brown coffins, of which

the whole magnificence consists in the immortal names of Goethe and

Schiller. In life the prince and the poet walked side by side, in death

they slumber under the same vault. Such a place as this is never

effaced from the mind; in such a spot those quiet prayers are offered,

which God alone hears.

 

I remained above eight days in Weimar; it seemed to me as if I had

formerly lived in this city; as if it were a beloved home which I must

now leave. As I drove out of the city, over the bridge and past the

mill, and for the last time looked back to the city and the castle, a

deep melancholy took hold on my soul, and it was to me as if a

beautiful portion of my life here had its close; I thought that the

journey, after I had left Weimar, could afford me no more pleasure. How

often since that time has the carrier pigeon, and still more

frequently, the mind, flown over to this place! Sunshine has streamed

forth from Weimar upon my poet-life.

 

From Weimar I went to Leipzig where a truly poetical evening awaited me

with Robert Schumann. This great composer had a year before surprised

me by the honor of dedicating to me the music which he had composed to

four of my songs; the lady of Dr. Frege whose singing, so full of soul,

has pleased and enchanted so many thousands, accompanied Clara

Schumann, and the composer and the poet were alone the audience: a

little festive supper and a mutual interchange of ideas shortened the

evening only too much. I met with the old, cordial reception at the

house of Mr. Brockhaus, to which from former visits I had almost

accustomed myself. The circle of my friends increased in the German

cities; but the first heart is still that to which we most gladly turn

again.

 

I found in Dresden old friends with youthful feelings; my gifted half-

countryman Dahl, the Norwegian, who knows how upon canvas to make the

waterfall rush foaming down, and the birch-tree to grow as in the

valleys of Norway, and Vogel von Vogelstein, who did me the honor of

painting my portrait, which was included in the royal collection of

portraits. The theatre intendant, Herr von L ttichau, provided me every

evening with a seat in the manager's box; and one of the noblest

ladies, in the first circles of Dresden, the worthy Baroness von

Decken, received me as a mother would receive her son. In this

character I was ever afterwards received in her family and in the

amiable circle of her friends.

 

How bright and beautiful is the world! How good are human beings! That

it is a pleasure to live becomes ever more and more clear to me.

 

 Beaulieu's younger brother Edmund, who is an officer in the army, came

one day from Tharand, where he had spent the summer months. I

accompanied him to various places, spent some happy days among the

pleasant scenery of the hills, and was received at the same time into

various families.

 

I visited with the Baroness Decken, for the first time, the celebrated

and clever painter Retsch, who has published the bold outlines of

Goethe, Shakspeare, &c. He lives a sort of Arcadian life among lowly

vineyards on the way to Meissen. Every year he makes a present to his

wife, on her birthday, of a new drawing, and always one of his best;

the collection has grown through a course of years to a valuable album,

which she, if he die before her, is to publish. Among the many glorious

ideas there, one struck me as peculiar; the Flight into Egypt. It is

night; every one sleeps in the picture,--Mary, Joseph, the flowers and

the shrubs, nay even the ass which carries her--all, except the child

Jesus, who, with open round countenance, watches over and illumines

all. I related one of my stories to him, and for this I received a

lovely drawing,--a beautiful young girl hiding herself behind the mask

of an old woman; thus should the eternally youthful soul, with its

blooming loveliness, peep forth from behind the old mask of the fairy-

tale. Retsch's pictures are rich in thought, full of beauty, and a

genial spirit.

 

I enjoyed the country-life of Germany with Major Serre and his amiable

wife at their splendid residence of Maren; it is not possible for any

one to exercise greater hospitality than is done by these two kind-

hearted people. A circle of intelligent, interesting individuals, were

here assembled; I remained among them above eight days, and there

became acquainted with Kohl the traveller, and the clever authoress,

the Countess Hahn-Hahn, in whom I discerned a woman by disposition and

individual character in whom confidence may be placed. Where one is

well received there one gladly lingers. I found myself unspeakably

happy on this little journey in Germany, and became convinced that I

was there no stranger. It was heart and truth to nature which people

valued in my writings; and, however excellent and praiseworthy the

exterior beauty may be, however imposing the maxims of this world's

wisdom, still it is heart and nature which have least changed by time,

and which everybody is best able to understand.

 

I returned home by way of Berlin, where I had not been for several

years; but the dearest of my friends there--Chamisso, was dead.

 

  The fair wild swan which flew far o'er the earth,

  And laid its head upon a wild-swan's breast,

 

was now flown to a more glorious hemisphere; I saw his children, who

were now fatherless and motherless. From the young who here surround

me, I discover that I am grown older; I feel it not in myself.

Chamisso's sons, whom I saw the last time playing here in the little

garden with bare necks, came now to meet me with helmet and sword: they

were officers in the Prussian service. I felt in a moment how the years

had rolled on, how everything was changed and how one loses so many.

 

  Yet is it not so hard as people deem,

    To see their soul's beloved from them riven;

  God has their dear ones, and in death they seem

    To form a bridge which leads them up to heaven.

 

I met with the most cordial reception, and have since then always met

with the same, in the house of the Minister Savigny, where I became

acquainted with the clever, singularly gifted Bettina and her lovely

spiritual-minded daughter. One hour's conversation with Bettina during

which she was the chief speaker, was so rich and full of interest, that

I was almost rendered dumb by all this eloquence, this firework of wit.

The world knows her writings, but another talent which she is possessed

of, is less generally known, namely her talent for drawing. Here again

it is the ideas which astonish us. It was thus, I observed, she had

treated in a sketch an accident which had occurred just before, a young

man being killed by the fumes of wine. You saw him descending half-

naked into the cellar, round which lay the wine casks like monsters:

Bacchanals and Bacchantes danced towards him, seized their victim and

destroyed him! I know that Thorwaldsen, to whom she once showed all her

drawings, was in the highest degree astonished by the ideas they

contained.

 

It does the heart such good when abroad to find a house, where, when

immediately you enter, eyes flash like festal lamps, a house where you

can take peeps into a quiet, happy domestic life--such a house is that

of Professor Weiss. Yet how many new acquaintance which were found, and

old acquaintance which were renewed, ought I not to mention! I met

Cornelius from Rome, Schelling from Munich, my countryman I might

almost call him; Steffens, the Norwegian, and once again Tieck, whom I

had not seen since my first visit to Germany. He was very much altered,

yet his gentle, wise eyes were the same, the shake of his hand was the

same. I felt that he loved me and wished me well. I must visit him in

Potsdam, where he lived in ease and comfort. At dinner I became

acquainted with his brother the sculptor.

 

From Tieck I learnt how kindly the King and Queen of Prussia were

disposed towards me; that they had read my romance of Only a Fiddler,

and inquired from Tieck about me. Meantime their Majesties were absent

from Berlin. I had arrived the evening before their departure, when

that abominable attempt was made upon their lives.

 

I returned to Copenhagen by Stettin in stormy weather, full of the joy

of life, and again saw my dear friends, and in a few days set off to

Count Moltke's in Funen, there to spend a few lovely summer days. I

here received a letter from the Minister Count Rantzau-Breitenburg, who

was with the King and Queen of Denmark at the watering-place of F/hr.

He wrote, saying that he had the pleasure of announcing to me the most

gracious invitation of their Majesties to F/hr. This island, as is well

known, lies in the North Sea, not far from the coast of Sleswick, in

the neighborhood of the interesting Halligs, those little islands which

Biernatzky described so charmingly in his novels. Thus, in a manner

wholly unexpected by me, I should see scenery of a very peculiar

character even in Denmark.

 

The favor of my king and Queen made me happy, and I rejoiced to be once

more in close intimacy with Rantzau. Alas, it was for the last time!

 

It was just now five and twenty years since I, a poor lad, travelled

alone and helpless to Copenhagen. Exactly the five and twentieth

anniversary would be celebrated by my being with my king and queen, to

whom I was faithfully attached, and whom I at that very time learned to

love with my whole soul. Everything that surrounded me, man and nature,

reflected themselves imperishably in my soul. I felt myself, as it

were, conducted to a point from which I could look forth more

distinctly over the past five and twenty years, with all the good

fortune and happiness which they had evolved for me. The reality

frequently surpasses the most beautiful dream.

 

I travelled from Funen to Flensborg, which, lying in its great bay, is

picturesque with woods and hills, and then immediately opens out into a

solitary heath. Over this I travelled in the bright moonlight. The

journey across the heath was tedious; the clouds only passed rapidly.

We went on monotonously through the deep sand, and monotonous was the

wail of a bird among the shrubby heath. Presently we reached moorlands.

Long-continued rain had changed meadows and cornfields into great

lakes; the embankments along which we drove were like morasses; the

horses sank deeply into them. In many places the light carriage was

obliged to be supported by the peasants, that it might not fall upon

the cottages below the embankment. Several hours were consumed over

each mile (Danish). At length the North Sea with its islands lay before

me. The whole coast was an embankment, covered for miles with woven

straw, against which the waves broke. I arrived at high tide. The wind

was favorable, and in less than an hour I reached F/hr, which, after my

difficult journey, appeared to me like a real fairy land.

 

The largest city, Wyck, in which are the baths, is exactly built like a

Dutch town. The houses are only one story high, with sloping roofs and

gables turned to the street. The many strangers there, and the presence

of the court, gave a peculiar animation to the principal street. Well-

known faces looked out from almost every house; the Danish flag waved,

and music was heard. I was soon established in my quarters, and every

day, until the departure of their Majesties, had I the honor of an

invitation from them to dinner, as well as to pass the evening in their

circle. On several evenings I read aloud my little stories (M rchen) to

the king and queen, and both of them were gracious and affectionate

towards me. It is so good when a noble human nature will reveal itself

where otherwise only the king's crown and the purple mantle might be

discovered. Few people can be more amiable in private life than their

present Majesties of Denmark. May God bless them and give them joy,

even as they filled my breast with happiness and sunshine!

 

I sailed in their train to the largest of the Halligs, those grassy

runes in the ocean, which bear testimony to a sunken country. The

violence of the sea has changed the mainland into islands, has riven

these again, and buried men and villages. Year after year are new

portions rent away, and, in half a century's time, there will be

nothing here but sea. The Halligs are now only low islets covered with

a dark turf, on which a few flocks graze. When the sea rises these are

driven into the garrets of the houses, and the waves roll over this

little region, which is miles distant from the shore. Oland, which we

visited, contains a little town. The houses stand closely side by side,

as if, in their sore need they would all huddle together. They are all

erected upon a platform, and have little windows, as in the cabin of a

ship. There, in the little room, solitary through half the year, sit

the wife and her daughters spinning. There, however, one always finds a

little collection of books. I found books in Danish, German, and

Frieslandish. The people read and work, and the sea rises round the

houses, which lie like a wreck in the ocean. Sometimes, in the night, a

ship, having mistaken the lights, drives on here and is stranded.

 

In the year 1825, a tempestuous tide washed away men and houses. The

people sat for days and nights half naked upon the roofs, till these

gave way; nor from F/hr nor the mainland could help be sent to them.

The church-yard is half washed away; coffins and corpses were

frequently exposed to view by the breakers: it is an appalling sight.

And yet the inhabitants of the Halligs are attached to their little

home. They cannot remain on the mainland, but are driven thence by home

sickness.

 

We found only one man upon the island, and he had only lately arisen

from a sick bed. The others were out on long voyages. We were received

by girls and women. They had erected before the church a triumphal arch

with flowers which they had fetched from F/hr; but it was so small and

low, that one was obliged to go round it; nevertheless they showed by

it their good will. The queen was deeply affected by their having cut

down their only shrub, a rose bush, to lay over a marshy place which

she would have to cross. The girls are pretty, and are dressed in a

half Oriental fashion. The people trace their descent from Greeks. They

wear their faces half concealed, and beneath the strips of linen which

lie upon the head is placed a Greek fez, around which the hair is wound

in plaits.

 

On our return, dinner was served on board the royal steamer; and

afterwards, as we sailed in a glorious sunset through this archipelago,

the deck of the vessel was changed to a dancing room. Young and old

danced; servants flew hither and thither with refreshments; sailors

stood upon the paddle-boxes and took the soundings, and their deep-

toned voices might be heard giving the depth of the water. The moon

rose round and large, and the promontory of Amrom assumed the

appearance of a snow-covered chain of Alps.

 

I visited afterwards these desolate sand hills: the king went to shoot

rabbits there. Many years ago a ship was wrecked here, on board of

which were two rabbits, and from this pair Amrom is now stored with

thousands of their descendants. At low tide the sea recedes wholly from

between Amrom and F/hr, and then people drive across from one island to

another; but still the time must be well observed and the passage

accurately known, or else, when the tide comes, he who crosses will be

inevitably lost. It requires only a few minutes, and then where dry

land was large ships may sail. We saw a whole row of wagons driving

from F/hr to Amrom. Seen upon the white sand and against the blue

horizon, they seem to be twice as large as they really were. All around

were spread out, like a net, the sheets of water, as if they held

firmly the extent of sand which belonged to the ocean and which would

be soon overflowed by it. This promontory brings to one's memory the

mounds of ashes at Vesuvius; for here one sinks at every step, the wiry

moor-grass not being able to bind together the loose sand. The sun

shone burningly hot between the white sand hills: it was like a journey

through the deserts of Africa.

 

A peculiar kind of rose, and the heath were in flower in the valleys

between the hills; in other places there was no vegetation whatever;

nothing but the wet sand on which the waves had left their impress; the

sea had inscribed on its receding strange hieroglyphics. I gazed from

one of the highest points over the North Sea; it was ebb-tide; the sea

had retired above a mile; the vessels lay like dead fishes upon the

sand, and awaiting the returning tide. A few sailors had clambered down

and moved about on the sandy ground like black points. Where the sea

itself kept the white level sand in movement, a long bank elevated

itself, which, during the time of high-water, is concealed, and upon

which occur many wrecks. I saw the lofty wooden tower which is here

erected, and in which a cask is always kept filled with water, and a

basket supplied with bread and brandy, that the unfortunate human

beings, who are here stranded, may be able in this place, amid the

swelling sea, to preserve life for a few days until it is possible to

rescue them.

 

To return from such a scene as this to a royal table, a charming court-

concert, and a little ball in the bath-saloon, as well as to the

promenade by moonlight, thronged with guests, a little Boulevard, had

something in it like a fairy tale,--it was a singular contrast.

 

As I sat on the above-mentioned five-and-twentieth anniversary, on the

5th of September, at the royal dinner-table, the whole of my former

life passed in review before my mind. I was obliged to summon all my

strength to prevent myself bursting into tears. There are moments of

thankfulness in which, as it were, we feel a desire to press God to our

hearts. How deeply I felt, at this time, my own nothingness; how all,

all, had come from him. Rantzau knew what an interesting day this was

to me. After dinner the king and the queen wished me happiness, and

that so--_graciously_, is a poor word,--so cordially, so sympathizingly!

The king wished me happiness in that which I had endured and won. He

asked me about my first entrance into the world, and I related to him

some characteristic traits.

 

In the course of conversation he inquired if I had not some certain

yearly income; I named the sum to him.

 

"That is not much," said the king.

 

"But I do not require much," replied I, "and my writings procure me

something."

 

The king, in the kindest manner, inquired farther into my

circumstances, and closed by saying,

 

"If I can, in any way, be serviceable to your literary labors, then

come to me."

 

In the evening, during the concert, the conversation was renewed, and

some of those who stood near me reproached me for not having made use

of my opportunity.

 

"The king," said they, "put the very words into your mouth."

 

But I could not, I would not have done it. "If the king," I said,

"found that I required something more, he could give it to me of his

own will."

 

And I was not mistaken. In the following year King Christian VIII.

increased my annual stipend, so that with this and that which my

writings bring in, I can live honorably and free from care. My king

gave it to me out of the pure good-will of his own heart. King

Christian is enlightened, clear-sighted, with a mind enlarged by

science; the gracious sympathy, therefore, which he has felt in my fate

is to me doubly cheering and ennobling.

 

The 5th of September was to me a festival-day; even the German visitors

at the baths honored me by drinking my health in the pump-room.

 

So many flattering circumstances, some people argue, may easily spoil a

man, and make him vain. But, no; they do not spoil him, they make him

on the contrary--better; they purify his mind, and he must thereby feel

an impulse, a wish, to deserve all that he enjoys. At my parting-

audience with the queen, she gave me a valuable ring as a remembrance

of our residence at F/hr; and the king again expressed himself full of

kindness and noble sympathy. God bless and preserve this exalted pair!

 

The Duchess of Augustenburg was at this time also at F/hr with her two

eldest daughters. I had daily the happiness of being with them, and

received repeated invitations to take Augustenburg on my return. For

this purpose I went from F/hr to Als, one of the most beautiful islands

in the Baltic. That little region resembles a blooming garden;

luxuriant corn and clover-fields are enclosed, with hedges of hazels

and wild roses; the peasants' houses are surrounded by large apple-

orchards, full of fruit. Wood and hill alternate. Now we see the ocean,

and now the narrow Lesser Belt, which resembles a river. The Castle of

Augustenburg is magnificent, with its garden full of flowers, extending

down to the very shores of the serpentine bay. I met with the most

cordial reception, and found the most amiable family-life in the ducal

circle. I spent fourteen days here, and was present at the birth-day

festivities of the duchess, which lasted three days; among these

festivities was racing, and the town and the castle were filled with

people.

 

Happy domestic life is like a beautiful summer's evening; the heart is

filled with peace; and everything around derives a peculiar glory. The

full heart says "it is good to be here;" and this I felt at

Augustenburg.
 

 

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